


One Up

by scarletalphabet



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Jarvis is an auctioneer because why not?, Taking Liberties With All the Things but I Don't Caaaaaaaaare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-16 10:20:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3484658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletalphabet/pseuds/scarletalphabet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Stark Estate recently had some historical artifacts stolen that were on their way to an actual charity auction.  Agent Carter is undercover with Stark Estate representative Jarvis, trying to find the items one by one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to use my own app (http://feedthebunny.herokuapp.com/) for a prompt, and pulled out: “good old fashioned pawn shop waffle iron bidding war.” Modern AU. Mature things coming in later chapters.
> 
> Also somebody please take my laptop away from me. I can't stop writing and I need to code.

* * *

Peggy shuffled around, trying to look interested as the auctioneer rattled off a description of the current item up for bid. Though she had been reluctant to include a civilian, particularly one with such close ties to the case of the missing Stark goods, Mr. Jarvis was doing a remarkable job undercover.

“Here we have one sealed, never before opened or used, original Atari 2600 game console,” he proclaimed, slowing down on a few key words in an effort to entice buyers. “No cartridges are included with this lot, but who doesn't want to relive the 80's with classic, retro video games like Donkey Kong, Pac-Man, and Space Invaders?”

Peggy snorted to herself. No, she was just fine not reliving the 1980s, considering what little she experienced of them mostly had to do with being a squalling baby and all the mess that that entailed. She had to hand it to Jarvis though, he was doing a good job of drawing her in even when she wasn't the least bit interested beyond appearance's sake. She was here to ensure that the stolen historical artifacts that Mr. Stark had donated to a charity auction actually made it there. Her contact had been sure that at least one was going to surface at this pawn shop auction. The sole reason for Jarvis's presence here was his thorough knowledge of all of Mr. Stark's possessions, and his ability to clue her when one appeared. The possibility of one of the thieves being here as well was an additional lure.

“Going once,” called Jarvis, Peggy tuning back in to the action. “Going twice. Sold to the young gentleman in the trilby.”

“It's a fedora,” the guy protested, though he happily took the invoice Jarvis handed him.

“Young man,” Jarvis replied, using his accent to its full advantage to project an air of firm politeness, “My mother was a milliner and I have seen many a hat come through this shop. If little else, I know my hats.” He smiled to soften his words and gestured towards the register. “My colleague at the register will be happy to exchange this item your winning bid.” Behind the counter said colleague moved forward to carry the box away.

Peggy fought hard not to giggle. That 'young man' couldn't be much more than ten years younger than Jarvis. And Jarvis's mother a milliner? She was well aware that such things still existed, but she had a sneaking suspicion that tale was born out of a desire to politely needle someone who couldn't call him out on it.

“What an old geezer,” the guy muttered as he pushed past Peggy.

“Geezer?” a woman's voice echoed, prompting Peggy to turn around and see a woman behind her, the curls of her hair bouncing down just past her shoulders. “What is this, the 1940s?” she asked in disbelief.

“Sometimes it feels that way,” Peggy acknowledged, thinking about all the macho posturing she was missing out on back at the office while she was on this assignment. Most of the guys she worked with were alright really, but sometimes her boss just—

“Besides,” the woman continued, putting a halt to Peggy's train of thought. “That man can't be any older than forty.”

“I suspect you're right,” Peggy agreed, though she knew it to be true. “I'm a terrible judge of age, but you might be on to something there.”

“I'm an actress,” the woman explained, holding out a hand in greeting. “Or a waitress. Depends on the day. Sometimes the hour.” She let out a soft snort of derision and added, “Sometimes depends on the customer. Gotta act like I don't care when they don't tip. Anyhow, acting's good practice for reading people.”

“Peggy Carter,” Peggy said, shaking the proffered hand. “I work for AT&T. On the mobile phone end of things that is.” She hadn't thought to need an official cover for this operation, but she was (usually) well versed at thinking on her feet. They had driven by an AT&T store on the way here, and they were the right kind of common enough and rare enough to not garner much investigation.

“English,” the women stated, more confidence than question.

Peggy feigned an embarrassed blush. “I see you've caught me,” she said. “I suppose calling it a 'mobile phone' gave me away.”

“Well the accent certainly helped,” the woman pointed out. She looked down at the ground in shame and shook her head. “But where are my manners?” she asked herself. “I offered you my hand and all but you still don't know my name. “Angie Martinelli. Boy would Nonna be disappointed in me.” She bent slightly as she put her hands on her hips and spoke in a growling tone, “Little Angie, don't you go round giving the impression that your momma didn't raise you right. Remember your manners, child.” She stood back up with a frown. “Can't really remember much of her beyond that,” she said. “Or why she called me 'Little Angie'. Five foot five is not that tiny. Average.” She cocked her head to one side, considering something. “Average Angie?” she tried, shrugging helplessly at the way it sounded.

Peggy couldn't help but smile at Angie's antics, feeling a strange urge to defend Angie from being called “average.” Really though, she hardly knew the woman. Beyond common human decency there was no reason for the rush to defend the other woman. “So,” Peggy began, fumbling for the right words to say. For goodness sake, she was a seasoned federal agent, not a child. “What brings you here then?” That should be a safe topic, and she was rather curious.

“Funny enough I saw a flier on the message board at the restaurant I work at,” Angie told her. “It's called the L&L, about a mile and a half that way.” She pointed in the direction of the door to the pawn shop and out towards the highway. “Well, it's more of a diner than a restaurant,” she admitted. “At any rate, I've been saving up quite a bit and a girl's got to spend a little money on herself from time to time.”

“I can't say that I've been to that diner,” Peggy replied. “Though I do love a good black coffee in the mornings.” The next sentence was out of her mouth before her rational mind could stop it. “I'll have to stop by sometime soon then. I promise that I'll tip, though I am interested in seeing those acting skills in action.” There she went making promises to a bystander during an undercover op that had nothing to do with the mission's success. Why was she making rookie mistakes all of a sudden?

“Well I can't say that the coffee's that outstanding,” Angie said in a weary stage whisper, “But the service is. Assuming you don't get seated in Bruce's section. And assuming that I'm on shift.”

“I'll just have to make sure that I get seated in your section then,” Peggy insisted.

“Great, English!” Angie exclaimed, flashing a smile so wide that it made her curls bounce. “It's a date.” This time it was Angie's turn to blush. “Well...you know, not a date date.”

Glad though she was to see that she wasn't the only one who got flustered in this scenario, Peggy was gladder still when she heard Jarvis's voice call out the phrase she had been waiting for.

“Now this is what you might call a historical artifact,” he called, his voice hush with added mystery. “It may look like a rather ordinary waffle iron, albeit an old one, but its history is deeper still. Ladies, gentlemen, and people of all genders, our next item up for bid is a Landers, Frary & Clark waffle iron with hexagonal domed lid. First produced in the late 1920s this non-automatic model with a pierced pedestal and ivory colored Catalin plastic fittings is topped by an ornate design pressed into the hexagonal domed lid. It makes a 7 inch diameter waffle. This one is in very good condition and comes with a detachable cord set. Given some care and respect, this waffle iron is ready and able to turn out beautifully baked waffles for generations to come.”

Peggy took advantage of Jarvis's long speech about the item to look around the room at who else was interested in case one of them turned out to be involved in the theft. Her focus on everyone else was so sharp that she barely registered the look on Angie's face, puzzled at the abrupt change. There was a man standing off to the other side who looked interested, though he was peering into an envelope assessing something, perhaps the amount of cash he was willing to spend. A suspicious looking woman stood up near Jarvis's counter. Peggy hadn't noticed her bidding on any of the previous items, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Peggy was more thrown by the rigid, robotic look on her face, as if someone had programmed a face of curiosity without the intricacies of the full range of human emotion and expression.

“But that's not even the most interesting thing about it,” Jarvis continued. Many people had grown bored and restless so Peggy could only imagine that he was doing this to give her more time to examine everyone. “This waffle iron's provenance goes back to the Rockefeller Family itself. Yes my friends, those Rockefellers. Great monopolizers of oil and funders of scientific research. This came into their possession shortly before their patriarch died.”

Peggy was surprised he knew that much about American history, even if he did seem to be laying it on a bit thick. Perhaps knowledge of rich families was passed from billionaire to billionaire and he had heard about them from Mr. Stark. Jarvis was independently knowledgeable of a great many things though, she realized, so she ought not discount his sources.

“Let's start the bidding at say...fifty dollars,” Jarvis offered, a hint of nerves showing in his voice for the first time this mission. 

To Peggy's surprise, Angie's hand shot up. She wouldn't have thought that an antique waffle iron was the sort of frivolous purchase a waitress/actress could afford, but perhaps she had a sort of nostalgia for yesteryear inspired by working at a diner.

Peggy's hand reached down to brush against the envelope in her jacket pocket. She had a total of five hundred dollars cash on her, which should be more than enough for this particular item assuming Jarvis's historical speech hadn't driven up the price. It all felt a bit silly, carrying so much cash around for a simple waffle iron, but at least it wasn't her money. She wouldn't pay more than Target's lowest price for one, assuming she had room in her apartment's tiny kitchen or time to cook herself a substantial breakfast. The last time she'd even operated a waffle iron had been at a hotel while on a family vacation when she was eight. She'd been terribly enthralled by the device, making waffle after waffle until her father caught on. 

Peggy reached one hand up, catching the bid at seventy dollars. No matter who else was bidding, she wasn't going to lose. 

The man she'd noticed earlier raised his hand to offer eighty. 

Angie darted in again for ninety.

“One hundred and twenty,” Peggy called crisply.

“Really, English?” Angie asked, arching one eyebrow. “Are you hungry?”

Peggy shrugged, unable to come up with a convincing motivation for her interest that didn't involve the mission. 

“Oh it's _so_ on,” Angie mouthed, turning her attention back to Jarvis and the bidding. “One forty!” she called in a surprisingly passable attempt at a posh British turn-of-the-century accent. 

“Somebody watches Downton Abbey,” Peggy muttered out of the side of her mouth. Now the strategy came in. Should she raise her bid dramatically in an attempt to price her out, or let it drag on a little longer for the sake of being realistic? “One fifty,” she settled on, all thoughts of proper hand raising abandoned.

“So what if I do?” Angie muttered back. “You're just jealous.” After a moment's hesitation she smiled sweetly up at Jarvis and called, “One eighty!”

“Jealous?” Peggy shot back, her ire raised at the competition despite having known Angie for scarcely more than a half an hour. There was a time for politeness and care for others, but this was not that time. “That doesn't even make sense.”

“Don't worry,” Angie told her. “I'll invite you over for breakfast sometime and you can see it in action.”

Peggy opened her mouth to add a comment about how Angie had better be making dinner the night before too, but quickly shut it. Where the hell did that thought come from? “Two twenty!” Peggy shouted, her voice nearly cracking in the excitement as she forced her mind back on track.

“I have two twenty,” Jarvis echoed. “Two twenty. Two thirty anyone? Two thirty?”

Peggy glanced over at Angie, an expression of challenge on her face. Her move.

Angie waved her off with a gesture of defeat. “Too rich for me, English,” she said. “Too rich.”

“Sold to the little lady from back home!” Jarvis pronounced with a flourish. 

Peggy shot Jarvis an 'are you serious?' glance in response to his dramatic flair as she walked up to grab the invoice. “Nice job,” she made sure to whisper out of one corner of her mouth. He really had done well, though she would have to wait until the item was safely back at headquarters to tell him properly. She felt the eyes of the suspicious woman from earlier tracking her movements as she slid over to the register to pay. The woman had bid twice in the early going, but her heart hadn't seemed in it. Still it was worth pulling security footage from the pawn shop just in case. She mulled over ways that she could strike up a conversation with her while holding the surprisingly heavy box with the waffle iron in it, but before she'd settled on something feasible the very woman pushed past her to disappear out the door. At least this operation was a success with the recovery of one of the items. 

Peggy made her way over to Angie and nudged her with one shoulder for lack of available hands. “I'm truly sorry,” she said, feeling the need to apologize even though it wasn't her fault. 

“It's alright, English,” Angie told her, nudging her shoulder right back. “Guess you're off with that, but come by the L &L sometime yeah? I'm always there Wednesday and Friday mornings for sure. Other times too but they're a bit of a crap shoot week to week.”

“I wouldn't want to end up with Bruce now would I?” Peggy joked.

“No,” Angie replied, her serious tone at odds with the grin spread wide on her face. “No you certainly wouldn't.”

Peggy walked out of the pawn shop with a spring in her step that had nothing to do with the success of the operation. Hopefully this case would wrap up soon so she could explain her real job to Angie, perhaps over coffee and a waffle. No case details of course, but thank goodness she wasn't CIA.


	2. I'll Be Seeing You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy finally finds time to reconnect with Angie at the diner, walking away with an offer that she can't refuse.

* * *

Peggy groaned as she finally sat down, her sore muscles protesting every movement. They'd finally wrapped up the Stark auction heist case, due in large part to Mr. Jarvis's willingness to risk life and limb on his employer's behalf. Her appreciation did little to soothe the aches and pains from the final confrontation though, and she was dying to get home into a nice hot bath. She spared a glance at the clock on her computer. 8am. The work day for normal people was just beginning, bleary-eyed professionals crowding around the office coffeemaker as they thought of nothing else but the weekend. Peggy was just glad that Dooley hadn't insisted on a trip to the hospital as her injuries had been minor. 

“Carter!” a voice barked.

Speak of the devil. “Sir?” Peggy replied, fighting against her limb-sapping weariness to stand back up as Dooley walked in. 

“What are you still doing here?” he asked, waving off her attempt to snap to attention with a disbelieving expression that implied some stupidity on her part.

Peggy sighed, fighting the urge to snap back at him. He meant well, she knew he did, but he didn't seem to give a damn how his remarks came across. “Just wrapping things up, sir.” she told him, managing to inject some cheeriness into her tone. Paperwork sucked no matter when you did it, and it had to be done. Better get a start on it now than let it sit and fester until it was absolutely unavoidable.

“You get on home soon, you hear?” he ordered, concern finally showing in his voice. “Can't have one of my agents passing out from exhaustion, especially not when we've finally closed the Stark case.” He looked pointedly at her from the edge of the bullpen. “I don't want you here any later than 10, or this weekend at all,” he added. “And get yourself a meal that doesn't come in a bag while you're at it.” He tapped out a lazy beat on the metal door frame leading to his office. “The budget can't afford anymore overtime for you,” he joked as he disappeared back into his office.

“What a prick,” Peggy mumbled. If she felt that his behavior was actually worth any of her time she might snark back at him that one mother back home in England was plenty thank you. She managed to eat remarkably well for someone with an unpredictable schedule which included a lot of running around, and the constant stream of fast food bags in Dooley's trash can bore witness to his own poor eating habits. Still, his notion about getting food bore merit, as her growling stomach could attest. Maybe just the basic rote data entry on some of the paperwork, then a stop at the carryout around the block from her apartment.

Peggy shifted through the stack of files on her desk, making sure that she had all the files that she needed. Slipping on her headphones as a signal to ward off any other well-meaning individuals, she began the slow process of officially closing the case. She tapped one foot along to the jazzy tunes of the Frank Sinatra station on Pandora. At one point she heard Sousa walk up to her desk and pause in expectation, but his footsteps retreated before she could muster the willingness to look up. Peggy tapped her pen on her desk, considering what she had to say to him. She did owe him an explanation for running away with the investigation, one that made it clear that she didn't doubt his physical capabilities, but rather that she had seen an opportunity and seized it. It had been a bit insensitive of her, even if she'd make the same decision again given the same opportunity.

Peggy finished with one set of documents and filed them away. She opened the next folder, her sluggish arms mirroring her brain's utter lack of desire to continue despite the upbeat music still streaming from her computer. She looked down at the first document, a copy of the invoice from the auction house, and felt a smile grow of its own accord. Of course the undercover operation had demanded her full attention and alertness, but she'd had a surprising amount of fun. She didn't always have the easiest time befriending women (most of her friends were men despite her feelings towards some of her coworkers) but she and Angie had just clicked.

Her stomach's earlier growling returned with more insistence despite the granola bar she'd eaten. “All right, all right,” she muttered. “I get the message.” Morning carryout wasn't particularly appealing, but diner food sounded good. A quick glance at the clock told her that they were likely still serving breakfast. Perhaps it was time for that coffee and waffle.

********

Peggy stepped into the diner to what sounded like the toot of a train. She looked up in surprise at the noise only to see an old toy train running around a track a couple of feet above her head. The rest of the diner had a similarly aged feel, but only in the sense that they were trying to hard to recreate some idealized part of history. The tiled floor was pretty standard, but the old signs and photos that decorated the wall looked far too glossy to have come from the last millennium. The chrome around the bar stools and countertops looked distressed, though more likely from years of use and little care.

“Just one?” a voice called.

Peggy turned to her right where a smiling man in a diner hat and bow tie stood smiling at her. Before she could formulate a response beyond the tempting snark about what he was implying by 'just one', a familiar voice cut in. 

“I've got this one,” Angie said, patting the man on the shoulder. She waved Peggy over to one corner of the diner. “Over here, English,” she told her. “You're just in time to miss the breakfast rush and the lunch rush. Lucky you.”

Peggy slid into the booth, glad that the cushioned bench was softer than it looked. She couldn't help but wince as the rather spectacular bruise on her shin glanced against the table leg.

“You alright, Peg?” Angie asked, her words rushed with concern. “Here I was all ready to read you the riot act for not coming in like you promised, but what kind of friend would I be to do that when you're hurt?”

Peggy, in danger of falling asleep right there at the table, ignored the fact that she had not technically promised to stop by. “Coffee first,” she mumbled through a yawn.

“Fair enough,” Angie replied. “Guess you're one of those 'can't function before my first cup of coffee' types.”

She strode off through the swinging doors to the kitchen, leaving Peggy to peruse the menu. Frankly it all sounded delicious, but she wanted something fast and easy. 

“From Carlos's special supply,” Angie announced, returning with a steaming mug of coffee. 

Peggy arched one eyebrow. “Do I even want to know?” she joked.

Angie rolled her eyes at Peggy's antics. “Carlos is our cook,” she explained. “He considers himself a bit of a coffee snob and won't touch the coffee we serve, so he brings his own. Stashes it behind the sacks of potatoes as if no one will think to look there.” She gestured to the end of the table. “Cream and sugar if you like,” she added.

Peggy felt herself perk up at the first whiff from the mug. It would only be a stopgap until she could get home and get some proper rest, but what a delicious stopgap. “Black is just fine,” she said, wrapping her hands around the mug. “My thanks to Carlos, if he ever finds out.” She bit her lip in hesitation, not wanting to send Angie away just yet. “Could I trouble you for a waffle?” she asked, hunger making the decision for her.

“I'm nothing but a gopher to you,” Angie said with a pout, though her eyes twinkled in amusement. “I see how it is. Syrup, ice cream, or the works?” Peggy's face must have given her away as she didn't say a word before Angie followed up with, “A smile like that? I guess the works it is. Be right back.”

Peggy watched Angie make her way back to the kitchen, her mouth still open, poised to ask just what Angie meant by a 'gopher'. She lifted her coffee mug up as if she had meant to take a sip all along, though a quick survey of the diner indicated that no one had been watching anyhow.

Angie came back out of the kitchen with several dishes, making the rounds to each customer to drop them off. “Go fer this, go fer that,” Angie muttered to Peggy when she passed her table, now laden with empty dishes.

Peggy smiled into her cup of coffee. For two people who hadn't known each other long they slipped onto the same wavelength rather easily. She and Jarvis had enjoyed the odd joke while he was helping with the Stark case, but being able to engage in friendly banter with another woman...that was a rare treat that she could get used to.

“Here you go, English,” Angie called, breaking her from her thoughts as she laid a plate down in front of her. “One waffle with the works.”

Peggy's eyes widened at the sight of the plate-sized waffle smothered in whipped cream and topped with strawberry sauce. Colored sprinkles were the only topping used with any restraint if the heavy hint of chocolate chips peeking out from beneath the whipped cream was any indicator. She didn't know where to start so she settled for the easier option of looking up at Angie and gesturing for her to sit down. “Have you got a minute?” she asked.

Angie looked around the diner, taking in the lull in activity. “Think I can spare a few minutes for you,” she replied, sliding into the booth opposite Peggy. “James can hold down the fort well enough.”

Peggy nudged the plate out of the way and crossed her arms, letting her elbows rest against the table. “I am afraid that I have not been entirely truthful with you,” she said, speaking more slowly than usual in an attempt to frame each word with deliberate honesty. While she couldn't reveal details about the case, telling Angie anything less than all that she could didn't feel right for some reason.

Angie's face screwed up in confusion. “About the auction at the pawn shop I mean,” Peggy explained hurriedly, talking over the impulse to blurt out how adorable her puzzled expression was.

“What, did you break the waffle iron so you had to come here to get your waffles in?” Angie joked. She gestured around to the diner and the toy train passing by overhead. “Can't be just the atmosphere bringing you in.”

Peggy poked at the waffle with her fork, prying lose one slightly melted chocolate chip and popping it into her mouth. “Not that,” she protested. “Actually—”

“Hey lady,” an irritated voice called. “Are you a waitress or what? Stop flirting with your girlfriend and do your job. I need my check.”

Peggy looked two empty tables over to where a man was sitting and tapping his finger on the table, as if expecting the check to materialize right there.

Angie got up, fumbling with the guest check pad in her apron pocket, clearly flustered by the man's comment.

Peggy stood up and followed her, stepping in front of her when they got to the table. She plucked the man's check from Angie's hand and slammed it down on the table. Leaning down next to him, one hand near his shoulder on the booth's back, she pointed the fork towards his eyes. “FBI,” she stated, enunciating clearly despite her hushed voice. Minor annoyance though the man was, she still felt a rush of adrenaline that boosted her energy. She brushed back her jacket with her other hand, revealing the badge she had on her belt. It was just as well that her weapon was tied up in the investigation—she wanted to get rid of the man, not genuinely frighten him. “I suggest that you pay and leave promptly. 'My girlfriend,' as you put it, deserves far better than a customer with all the manners of an unpolished teaspoon.” She smiled a wide fake smile and added, “Oh, please tip generously.”

Peggy stalked back to the table, leaving Angie to trail after her this time. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the man throw down a fifty dollar bill and scuttle out of the diner. “Well that could have gone better,” she said with a sigh, taking a gulp of her now reasonably hot coffee.

Angie shrugged and sat back down opposite Peggy. “He's not the first asshole we've had in here,” she said. Her brow was furrowed in a confusion that hinted at something deeper than basic misunderstanding. “You didn't have to do that you know. I can defend myself.”

“I meant telling you that I was an agent,” Peggy explained, swallowing a mouthful of waffle. The brief adrenaline surge had worn off, leaving her more hungry than before. “I couldn't do so until the possibility of further undercover work was past, but that was a poor way to find out.” She looked squarely into Angie's eyes, adding, “And I do not doubt that you can take care of yourself. He, to be frank, pissed me off.”

“Fair enough,” Angie conceded. She paused as her fingers tapped the tabletop with nervous energy. “Why didn't you correct him though?” she asked, her head cocked to one side as if looking for an answer in Peggy's face as well as her words.

“When it comes to people like that I often find that reflecting their own words back at them is more effective than trying to correct them,” Peggy explained, speaking with more authority than she felt she actually possessed. Did she risk giving voice to the twisted sort of thrill that had run through her when the man had said “girlfriend”? She closed her eyes for a moment in indecision. “Besides, that would be no bad thing,” she murmured.

The smile that bloomed on Angie's face was worth the risk. “A girl like moi?” she asked, pointing at her now roguish grin. “You should be so lucky.”

“The lottery and Vegas all in one,” Peggy replied dryly, shaking her head in amusement as she dug back into her food.

“Thought you were going to go all James Bond on him there with the fork,” Angie said, miming driving a fork into her own hand. She paused as her face scrunched up in thought. “There's got to be good lady spies though, right? Course the idiots in Hollywood don't want to risk a movie on one, but there's got to be some that haven't been some dude's sidekick. Did the—no. M—no.” She shook her head. “You know,” she told Peggy, “I can think of all these kickass people who would be great in a movie like that—don't tell me you wouldn't pay good money to see Maggie Smith knock some people around, or at least her stunt-woman—but I can't think of a single actual example.” She slumped back against the booth. “And yes, I know that an FBI agent is not actually a spy.”

“I must say, I'd forgotten that I had the fork in my hand,” Peggy admitted, feeling a blush rising on her face. “Rather glad he was weak-willed enough to cave. I didn't fancy a drawn-out argument, and neither would my boss.”

“Oh I don't know, I bet you could convince a lot of people with that voice” Angie offered, waiving a hand with a nonchalance that was at odds with the smolder of interest in her gaze. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Hey listen, my shift's almost up,” she said, sliding out of the booth. “I'm going to go take care of my last couple of tables and change out of this museum piece and you can tell me the rest of your story.”

Angie returned several minutes later, having ditched her diner gear for jeans and a t-shirt that had “chicks dig diamonds” stamped over a baseball. “So I'm guessing you had a rough week?” she asked, a concerned frown back on her face. “Looked like a nasty bruise on your waist when you moved your jacket to show that guy your badge.”

“More like a rough couple of weeks,” Peggy corrected, feeling much more talkative now that she'd had good food and even better coffee. “I can't tell you details about the investigation, but we were trying to recover stolen goods, hence the undercover operation at the pawn shop. I apologize for the lie about who I was, but it was necessary, as was the bidding war.”

Angie waved off the apology. “I had fun,” she assured Peggy. “Besides, I didn't walk out of there empty handed. Hell, I almost walked out of there with more than I meant to since that fancy auctioneer sure knew how to talk up the items.”

Peggy couldn't help but laugh at the description of Jarvis, fitting though it was.

Angie winced. “Don't tell me that he's an agent too,” she guessed.

“Don't worry, he's not,” Peggy told her, patting her hand reassuringly. “He helped us out on the case and I'd like to think that we're friends of sorts.”

“Well it had a good outcome I hope?” Angie guessed, her voice clear with confidence on this one.

“In the end I guess it did,” Peggy confirmed with a nod. “I'm a little bruised and banged up, but we caught the guys who did it. I don't need to be back at work for a couple of days so I can go home, relax, and enjoy a nice long soak in—” Her fork fell to her near empty plate with a clang. “Bugger it all,” she grumbled, frowning down at the table as she remembered a crucial fact. “I moved a couple of months ago and I forgot that my new place doesn't have a bath. Or nothing that deserves the name. Slightly expanded shower stall more like it.”

Angie let the silence linger for a moment, clearly considering something. “I don't mean to push,” she said, “And believe me, I would not be offended if you said no, but you're welcome to use the one at my apartment. It's actually a pretty sweet bathroom considering the size of the rest of the place, and it's only a short walk from here.” She glanced up and down at Peggy's tailored pantsuit. “Haven't got anything that fancy,” she added, “But I've at least got some workout clothes you can borrow until you get back to your place.”

Peggy knew she should say no, that Angie was practically a stranger, but the lure of a proper tub soak was difficult to ignore. Presumably the bathroom had a door so it's not like anything untoward would happen. “Shame that,” she muttered, her brain not able to stop her mouth in time.

“What?” Angie asked, squinting as if that would help her hear what Peggy had said.

“Oh, nothing,” Peggy assured her with a smile. “If it wouldn't be too much of an imposition, I might take you up on that lovely offer.” She reached for her purse and took out her wallet. “Just let me settle up here.” She winked at Angie. “Don't worry, I tip generously.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just sharing this because I amused myself. When I was sketching out ideas for what would happen, I described Peggy's confrontation with the guy as "peggy goes over to him and does the fork thing while explaining that she's an fbi agent." Alas actual violence didn't seem feasible.
> 
> Also I accidentally wrote that last line as "Don't worry, I top generously" at first. Whoops.
> 
> Also also this fic will earn its rating in the next and final chapter, hold your horses.


	3. Thistle Do Nicely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy finally gets that bath she's been dying for, getting to know Angie better in the process.

Angie jiggled the key in the lock. “It takes just a bit of—” the door opened. “Finesse,” she finished. 

Peggy stepped into Angie's apartment, curious to see if it at all matched what she'd learned of the woman so far. The door opened right into a tiny living room, filled to bursting with one couch, a wall of bookshelves, a small coffee table, and a tv on a small stand. The wall opposite the bookshelves was covered in pictures, but one stood out, slightly larger than the others. Peggy ran her finger over the wooden frame as she investigated it. A smiling Angie had one arm slung around a taller man in what looked like a cross between a park ranger's uniform and a military uniform. He had a beer in one hand and a similar look on his face, right on down to the laughter in his eyes. There was a crowd of people behind them, but they were too out of focus to determine anything distinct besides more uniform colors. “Your brother?” Peggy guessed. The expressions were too similar for anything else.

“Yeah,” Angie said, her hands twisting her keychain back and forth despite her calm tone. “Army COE. Ma was relieved when he went that direction, thought he'd be safe at home, but he's off in Iraq with a Forward Engineer Support Team. Not technically a combat position, but women not serving on front lines doesn't stop them from being killed.”

Peggy frantically racked her brain for a safe tangent. “Did he teach you how to build that?” she asked, gesturing over to where a model Spitfire sat on the coffee table. “My granddad flew those in the war.”

“Him, teach me?” she snorted, picking the plane up. “More like the other way around. I was always fiddling with things as a kid, taking them apart, and he made me teach him. The paint job on this one's all him though. Don't have a stable enough hand for the fine detailing.”

Peggy wanted to peer further down this line of conversation, genuinely curious what had turned Angie away from sharpening her natural interest into a real skill, but was wary of digging too deep. “You know those are getting rarer and rarer,” she said, nodding over to the tv.

“One thing that streaming's not too good at is sports,” Angie explained. She wrinkled her nose in disgusted frustration and added, “Not that the Mets are doing much worth watching these days.”

“The Mets are...baseball?” Peggy ventured. She'd been living here for several years but she'd not yet gotten the hang of which logo went with which team or with which sport. Given Angie's shirt that was a safe choice though.

“Yep,” Angie confirmed with a nod. “They play in the same division as DC's team, the Nationals, and if the Nationals hadn't been awful for so long and gotten so many high draft picks the Mets would be doing a lot better.”

Peggy nodded in sympathy, not knowing enough to say otherwise.

“I'll have to drag you out to a game sometime,” Angie told her. “Wouldn't be right of me to leave a friend of mine in the dark about baseball.” She ducked into another room and returned with two towels. “In the mean time, bathroom's through the door right next to the kitchen,” she said, pointing as she spoke. She handed Peggy the towels and added, “I'll dig out some clothes you can borrow in the meantime, but a word of warning—the knobs turn in the opposite direction from each other. Don't ask me why.”

“I will make sure that I don't take too long,” Peggy said, inclining her head in deferential gratefulness. “Thank you again, Angie.”

Angie waved off Peggy's offer to be brief. “Take all the time you want, English,” she told her. “I've got plenty enough to do out here, and you seem like you need it.”

There it was, that nickname Angie had called her once or twice at the pawn shop. Peggy hadn't thought about it since then, but there was something about hearing it now that put a smile on her face.

********

The sound of insistent knocking burst through Peggy's consciousness. “Peggy?” Angie's voice called, her tone rising in alarm. “Peggy? Are you all right in there?”

“Hmm?” Peggy mumbled, still getting her bearings. One hand fell off the side of the tub, landing beside her with a splash. Ah. She was still in Angie's bathroom. “Everything's fine,” she assured Angie. “I must have relaxed so much that I fell asleep.”

“Good,” Angie replied, all traces of distress vanishing from her voice. “Not good that you fell asleep, good that you're okay. Well, I guess it's good that you were relaxed?”

Peggy could almost see Angie's shrug through the closed door and bit back a laugh at the adorably confused expression she envisioned. 

“Anyhow,” Angie continued, “I'll just put these clothes right outside the door whenever you're done getting all pruney in there.” Her footsteps retreated for a moment before she hurriedly called out, “Not that I'm imagining you in the tub or anything.” Angie beat a hastier retreat without another word.

Peggy squirmed at the thought, her legs rubbing together of their own accord. “Right, getting dressed,” she muttered, stepping out of the bath and drying off. She poked her head out and grabbed the clothes. “How very...orange,” she said, unfolding the t-shirt. She shrugged and got dressed. Beggars couldn't be choosers and the bath had definitely been worth it.

Peggy emerged from the bathroom and caught sight of Angie in the kitchen. “Thank you so much for letting me impose,” she told Angie. She handed back the towels, damp but neatly folded. “I can't imagine that a shower would have felt that refreshing,” she added. “Though the accidental nap likely helped in that regard.”

“Anytime,” Angie replied, placing the towels on the counter. “I'm just sorry that I've been meaning to do my laundry for ages so all I had was that old Mets shirt.” She let her gaze wander lazily up and down Peggy's outfit. “Looks good on you though.”

Although Peggy prided herself on her observational skills, she had trouble reading Angie as well as she read suspects. Something in Angie's tone sounded more keen than sorry, but that could be nothing more than the product of an overworked brain. 

“Well if you want to impose a little longer, would you like some tea?” Angie offered. She rummaged through a cupboard above the sink and pulled out two boxes. “Unless it's not English to have this bagged stuff. I've got some halfway decent coffee too. Or hot chocolate. No judgment.” She snorted and shook her head at the mostly empty mug of tea she'd left out.

Peggy stood there waiting for the forthcoming explanation.

“It's something one of my friends always says,” Angie told her. “You know those jokes that are kinda inappropriate so you don't want to laugh at them but you can't help it?” She looked up at Peggy for her nod of understanding. “Well it's one of those. I think it's from an old radio show.”

Peggy let the expectant silence linger for a moment before prompting, “So what is it?”

Angie's face turned bright red. “Oh Peg,” she said, busying herself with filling the kettle. “I'm sure you don't want to hear a dirty joke.”

Out of those lips? “You might be surprised at that,” Peggy replied, a hint of a growl slipping into her voice. 

“Huh?” Angie replied, turning around.

Peggy's eyes darted to the stove, glad that Angie hadn't started the gas yet. “I said,” she repeated, her voice deepening in anticipation, “That you might be surprised.” She leaned into Angie, brushing her lips with her own. At Angie's response Peggy deepened the kiss, tasting lingering notes of orange and licorice when her tongue teased Angie's mouth. Peggy pushed Angie back against the counter as she hungrily pressed for more. Her hands grabbed for Angie's hips, itching to reach under her shirt but reluctantly settling for stroking the bared skin above the waistband of her jeans. Suddenly she backed off. “Good?” she asked, her strained voice gasping for breath while she had the chance. Was that good? Are we good to keep going? 

“Better,” Angie replied, unable to keep her wandering hands off of Peggy.

Peggy cocked her head in confusion. “Does that mean—”

“English, you talk too much,” Angie declared. The playful nip she gave Peggy's bottom lip silenced her protest. “Just.” She dropped a kiss on her lips. “Enjoy.” She let a kiss linger against Peggy's neck. “It.” Angie grabbed Peggy's ass, pulling her back to her.

Peggy moaned at the feeling of Angie's mouth hitting just the right spot on her neck. “Of that there was never any doubt,” she murmured.

It took a full three minutes and one discarded shirt for them to stumble the short distance to Angie's bedroom. Peggy was glad that Angie had loaned her a pair of workout pants as they were easy to shuck off in favor of helping Angie out of her jeans. Peggy couldn't resist slipping a finger beneath Angie's underwear, eliciting a moan from the other woman.

“Cheater,” Angie complained, her breath still shallow with pleasure.

“Should I stop then?” Peggy asked, raising her hands in a gesture of helpless innocence.

“Don't you dare,” Angie replied, tugging at Peggy's shirt.

“That's what I thought,” Peggy said with a smirk, reaching out to divest Angie of her last scrap of clothing.

The moment she was free Angie pounced, pushing Peggy back to lie on the bed. “Have to say, I think that orange looks much better off you,” she proclaimed. She captured Peggy's mouth in hers as she thrust their bodies together.

Peggy's groan at the bad joke turned into a moan of delight at the contact. It had been ages since she'd let herself feel anything real for someone, and the way that Angie seemed to know just what would get a reaction out of her? That was the cherry on top.

Her mind was thrown sharply back to the present at the feeling of Angie kissing her way down Peggy's torso. Her hands grabbed the sheets as her body lifted up into the touch of Angie's lips. It was never quite enough until—“Yes,” she exhaled breathlessly when Angie's tongue found what it had been searching for.

Her soft whimpers of pleasure turned into deeper and louder moans under Angie's ministrations. As much as she wanted to savor it, she found herself urging Angie to move faster and faster with each panting breath. She reached one arm down to Angie's head, desperate to have as much contact with her as possible.

“You alright there?” Angie asked, looking up at Peggy with a devilish grin that said she knew exactly how Peggy was feeling.

“Bloody fucking hell!” Peggy exclaimed, the swear slipping out without a second thought. So fucking close.

Angie smirked and lowered her head again, bringing Peggy to her peak moments later.

Peggy's back arced up off the bed as the wave of pleasure ran through her, her limbs still quivering as she relaxed back down on the sheets. Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly, still trapped in a trembling shout.

“I wouldn't have picked you for a noisy one,” Angie joked, watching as Peggy came back down to earth. 

“Noisy?” Peggy echoed, her mind still hazy. “I didn't realize.”

“Not your usual m.o.?” Angie guessed, crawling up to lay beside Peggy. “Glad I could bring it out of you then.” She gave a dramatic waggle of her eyebrows, eliciting a throaty chuckle from Peggy.

“Mmm, so am I,” Peggy told her, bringing Angie's face to her for a gentle kiss, equal parts affection and curiosity about her own taste. “Just give me a moment and I'll show you how glad I am.”

“It's not a barter system,” Angie said, rolling her eyes at Peggy's sense of fair play. “Though I wouldn't mind seeing what else your voice can do to me.”

********

There was only one thing still nagging Peggy's brain. “You know the joke that you were talking about earlier?” she asked, rolling over to face Angie without a care that the sheet didn't follow her.

“Mm hmm,” Angie replied, dropping a kiss to Peggy's collar bone.

“You never told me the actual joke,” Peggy replied. She arched into Angie's touch as her tongue swirled around one nipple.

“Geez, English,” Angie said, pulling back to look at her. “You'd rather me use my tongue for that right now?”

Peggy sniffed haughtily. “You can get right back to that once you finish your story,” she declared, running her hand over a particularly sensitive spot that she'd discovered earlier on Angie's hip.

“Fine,” Angie replied, her breath catching at Peggy's touch. “So you know how some places serve warm cider in the winter? The non-alcoholic kind I mean. At coffee shops and the like. Well my friend's fiance used to blush real easy so when we'd go out for coffee he'd often suggest a 'hot Dickens cider.' I do have cider in the fridge, so I thought about offering it.”

Hot Dickens cider? What did Charles Dickens have to do with—oh. Peggy couldn't help but snort in chagrined amusement when she got it. “I'm fine thank you very much,” she said, grabbing Angie's hand. She dragged it down over Angie's stomach, grinning at Angie's moan of anticipation as their fingers inched below her waist. “This will do nicely.”


End file.
